


The Adventure Of The St. Pancras Siren

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [84]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Framing Story, Justice, London, M/M, Murder, Police, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 03:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15743511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock stretches the gap between justice and the law to new lengths in order to solve the killing of the friend of a friend, and to stop someone from getting away with what seemed the perfect crime.





	The Adventure Of The St. Pancras Siren

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torenheksje](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torenheksje/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Criminals, as my brother Sherlock so wisely says, come in all shapes, sizes and different disguises (a poet he is not!). And the one encountered in this case was decidedly unusual, in that the means they alighted on to dispatch their target into the next world was another human being, whilst the motive.... well, few things can shock me after some of the stories I have heard from my brother, but this was one of them.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes had many fine qualities, but one of those which (in my opinion) I could not fully reflect in my published cases was his great kindness to those he deemed worthy of such. I have mentioned elsewhere in my notes how he helped and later saved the career of our policeman friend Josiah Smith who was now firmly settled into his role of inspector, and I was therefore pleased when that gentleman was announced at Baker Street that day. 

One of my friends less fine qualities was that he could be about as unsubtle as a brick through a jeweller's shop-window. And today was one of those times. 

“You are here about the murder of Constable Fredericks”, he said. “Who is the other woman?”

I thought for a moment that the inspector was going to need my professional services; he looked fit to have a seizure. I handed him a hastily-poured whisky and he drank it down in one shot before staring in shock at Holmes.

“How the blazes did you know that?” he demanded. “Please God don't tell me those vermin in the press have gotten hold of the story already? The poor boy isn't even cold!”

“Elementary”, Holmes said calmly. “Were this to be a regular case, the killing of one of your own men would demand the full focus of the whole station as you rightly sought to avenge your lost colleague. Yet you have come to us, outsiders in this matter. Therefore there must be a certain element in the case which makes discretion at the very least desirable, since even policemen gossip and you would not want his poor relatives to have any further troubles. Besides, given the young man's sterling character something that would besmirch that is clearly implied.”

Inspector Smith calmed down a little and nodded. Holmes turned to me.

“Mr. Alston Fredericks was one of the brightest young constables at the inspector's base station”, he said. “A real credit to the service.”

“He was investigating a possible break-in down Wellstream Terrace”, the inspector said, frowning, “and the blackguard must have still been there. He shot him at point blank range; boy didn't stand a chance. And him having a lady and three kids to support!”

_(To clarify, Constable Fredericks had had a friend Mr. Edred Windsor. His death from consumption had coincided with his sister Miss Alice Windsor's short-lived marriage to a civil servant, the latter having abandoned her after her first pregnancy had resulted in triplets. The constable had heard of her troubles and had invited her to move in with him, although there was nothing between them)._

“Please tell us everything you know”, Holmes said as I passed the inspector another whisky. The man rarely drank even when he came round to us, so I knew that he had to be in a bad way although fortunately he only sipped at his second drink.

“It is complicated”, he admitted. “You see, Fredericks was patrolling right down on the eastern edge of our patch. Wellstream Terrace, although it's in St. Pancras, is a very well-to-do new development that's on Sergeant Wright's patch next door, and we.....uh.... we don't always get on.”

This was one of those rare instances when I could understand the parochial nature of some local constabularies. Holmes and I had had dealings with the unpleasant Sergeant Wright on more than one occasion, and he was a waste of space in my opinion. His wife had, I had previously been told, left him due to his 'unreasonable behaviour', and even the usually tolerant Miss Day had labelled him 'someone I'd offer money off to off'. 

“So he was killed on someone else's patch”, Holmes mused. “I am sure that the chances of Sergeant Wright co-operating in the matter will be minimal, if not zero. Tell me what you know.”

The inspector sat back. 

“Fredericks went on patrol at six yesterday morning”, he said. “At around half-past nine he was working Candlemas Drive – he had met Williams on his beat a few minutes prior - when he must have heard a commotion in the neighbouring street which is Wellstream Terrace. There is a small cut-through alleyway and he went down that.”

“How do you know that?” Holmes asked.

“Fredericks was found dead at number thirty-three”, the inspector said. “Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc at number thirty-one was out in his garden, and saw him emerge from the alleyway and run up to the house. He did not hear anything from the house, but since the poor boy was found round the back that is not surprising. He saw Fredericks try the front door first, but that was a solid piece of oak – I've been there – so he then went round the back. He must have gotten into the house and then been shot.”

“What did Mr. Beauclerc do when he heard the shot?” I asked.

“He _claims_ that he did not hear anything even then”, the policeman said. “He is a bit hard of hearing he said; I checked that with his doctor but it was true enough. When he did not see the boy emerge after a while he became concerned. He went out the back and used the alleyway that cuts across the cut-through and emerges in Kent House Road; I suppose he was trying to avoid the shooter when they came out. He found one of Wright's men there and they went back to the house. Too late for the boy, but I suppose I can see why he wanted to be careful.”

“I too find it hard to believe that even someone hard of hearing would not hear something as loud as a gunshot”, I said.

“There was something else to that”, Smith said, “There was a cap found next to the body, and it had a bullet-hole in it. The killer must have shot through it to muffle the sound; there were no marks around the wound as you do get when the shot is done close in. No-one admitted to owning the thing, as you might expect.”

“So”, Holmes said heavily. “Who is the shady lady who lives at number thirty-three?”

“A Miss Delilah Abbott”, the policeman said sourly, “and it would be stretching things to call her a lady. Wright interviewed her himself, and one of his constables told me it was the first time he'd ever seen his boss sweat! Unfortunately Mr. Beauclerc saw her leaving for her work half an hour before it all went down, and he stayed in his garden all that time.”

I thought to myself that the shady lady could easily have slipped back in down the same alley that the policeman used, although I could see no motive on her part. Holmes shook his head for some reason.

“You have neglected to mention the name of the man that you have hold on for this crime, Smith”, he said mildly. The inspector rolled his eyes.

“Any chance you can use those freakish super-human powers of yours to put your finger on the guilty party?” he asked.

“Who have you arrested?” I asked.

“Not arrested yet, just taken in for questioning”, he said. “Mr. Frank Quimby, the fellow who lives on the other side at number thirty-five. He's a picture-framer and works in a shop off the Strand, but he was off work with the flu. Yes, we checked with his doctor, but that was true. Mr. Beauclerc said that he thought that Mr. Quimby had a thing for Miss Abbott, although he does not not know if those feelings were requited.”

“Did Mr. Quimby not hear the shot?” I asked.

“No”, Smith said, “but he does photography work in a dark room in his cellar. He claims that he was down there, and the place does have a double door to prevent anyone from blundering in and ruining his work.”

“Does the garrulous Mr. Beauclerc have any evidence for his suspicions of his neighbours?” Holmes asked.

“Not much”, the policeman admitted. “Mr. Beauclerc – a right woman when it comes to spying on the neighbours - says he is sure he saw him enter the house through the back door on at least one occasion. He, uh, was putting out the rubbish and..... just happened to see him.”

Incidentally, black men _can_ blush.

“Hmm”, Holmes said slowly. “Tell me, what do Miss Abbott and Mr. Beauclerc do for a living?”

“She is a dressmaker and works for some high-end fashion store in the West End”, the policeman said. “Unfortunately she operates under some sort of freelance set-up; she goes round to a list of clients each day and her first was some batty old dear over Putney way who was sure that she arrived with the Kaiser and the Princess of Wales! As for him, he works on the railways as a guard. He was off that day because he had worked the previous Sunday.”

“I would like to see that cap”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately I suppose that it is currently in Sergeant Wright's station, and he would not take kindly to a consulting detective taking an interest in his case.”

“I can take you to see it, if you think it would help”, the inspector offered. “What do you think, sir?”

“I fear that someone has been very clever”, Holmes said. “But even the cleverest people slip up. We can but hope. Lead on, inspector.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sergeant Matthew Wright would, as I had expected, have no truck with a consulting detective examining what he regarded as His evidence. But he could not object to an inspector examining it and Holmes just happening to stand opposite him when he did so, although I heard several disapproving tuts. I also caught at least two of the sergeant's constables smirking at their superior's very obvious displeasure. Bullies are never well liked. 

The cap was in my opinion frankly unremarkable. It was of the cheap sort that are commonly available, and its only distinguishing feature seemed the prominent bullet-hole in it. Holmes only asked one further question of the inspector, and I wondered what was the relevance of any of the people involved owning a cat (only Miss Abbott did). I thought the whole exercise pointless and said as much to my friend, who smiled at me.

“On the contrary”, he said. “That small and rather cheap item of clothing told me two very important things about the case.”

We were all squashed into a carriage riding back to the inspector's station, so we both turned to stare at him.

“What things?” the policeman asked.

“Who committed the crime, and who did not commit the crime”, Holmes said simply. “But a court would need more proof, especially as it may well be a hanging affair.”

“Was Fredericks seeing this woman?” the policeman demanded.

“He was not. She, however, wished to be seeing him.”

We both looked at him in confusion.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We dropped the inspector off at his station and headed back to Baker Street, stopping at the post office near the house where Holmes fired off several telegrams. I wondered what he was up to, but I knew (hoped) that he would tell me in the fullness of time.

Three days passed and several more telegrams came and went, until apparently it was time for action. I expected us to go and collect the inspector first, but Holmes directed the driver straight to Wellstream Terrace.

“I am going to do something a little unethical to bring about justice in this matter”, he said seriously. “And I would rather that our policeman friend were not there to see me do it, otherwise he himself may have questions to answer.”

We reached our destination and Holmes paid the cabbie. Unusually all the houses in the terrace had names as well as numbers, and number thirty-three was “Bonnybrae”. A policeman was stationed outside and eyed us suspiciously.

“Do not worry, constable”, Holmes said amiably. “Our business is with number thirty-one or, as I see it is called, 'Buffers'.”

I thought not for the first time that some people should not be allowed to choose names for their houses. Holmes grinned at my reaction and led the way up the path to knock at the front door. It was opened by a man whom was presumably the local busyb.... Mr. Nicholas Beauclerc, who peered at us curiously.

“I am not buying anything”, he said loftily. “Go away.”

“We are here about the murder next door”, Holmes said quietly.

The man went pale, but ushered us in. 

“What do you want?” he asked once we were inside.

“I would rather talk about this seated if you do not mind”, Holmes said amiably. “After all, matters of murder are not the sort of thing to discuss in the hallway. Unless you would like me to call that nice constable in to 'help'?”

The man looked horrified and quickly led us into his main room. 

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Let us just say that we are detectives”, Holmes smiled, “and that we are here for your welfare.”

“What do you mean?” the man demanded. Holmes sighed.

“We are investigating a certain character who, if they run true to form, will shortly be committing their second murder”, Holmes said, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather. “The victim will be you.”

The man started.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, he said, although I noted that he looked worried. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Miss Delilah Abbott”, he said. “One of those women who find it not just incomprehensible but utterly unforgivable that a man would dare to refuse _her_ advances. She made a play for the affections of a humble London constable, and was amazed that she was rejected on the frankly unacceptable grounds that he was married. _She_ was not to be shunned like that, and she plotted a most vicious and evil revenge. Involving you.”

The man swallowed hard.

“She bought a house in a road that was ideally situated for two reasons”, Holmes continued. “First, it was next to where her target patrolled, but over in a neighbouring station's patch. The woman was smart enough to know how parochial London's constabulary are, and that a crime committed in such a location would have any investigation hindered by the inevitable and unnecessary 'turf war'. And second, she had no intention of running any risk to her own neck in the matter. She intended to employ someone else to do the murder for her. That person was you.”

I stared in astonishment.

“She plays on the affections of both her neighbours and decides that you, Mr. Beauclerc, would be the more suitable. Before you know it you are writing your will to leave all your money to her and lending more than a sympathetic ear when she tells you the horrendous tale of a former suitor of hers who has joined the Metropolitan Police, and is using his new job to harass her. Finally she has you round one day when she claims that he had tried to molest her, and that acting in self-defence she had managed to knock him out.”

The man looked set to faint.

“Do you have access to her house?” Holmes asked brusquely.

“Yes”, he said. “Not... not the front door – she would not let me have the key until we were married – but there is a connecting door to which we both have a key. I have a table on my side of it but I can move it and I know that her side is clear.”

“Do so”, Holmes commanded. 

The man moved faster than I would have thought possible and the door was open for us in barely a minute.

“Now”, Holmes said gravely, “you will come with us into the house. I need to search for certain things therein. You will sit on a chair and say nothing. Once I am done we will talk. Do you understand?”

I do not think that I have ever seen a man so frightened in my entire life. He was physically trembling as he followed us into the house and Holmes set about his work.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We were back in “Buffers”. Holmes faced a man who looked as if he might need my services very soon, if not those of the local undertaker.

“I have but one question for you”, Holmes said. “When Miss Abbott told you to, did you shoot Constable Fredericks?”

The man shook his head.

“Words, please!” Holmes growled.

“No, sir! She called me a coward and said that I was nothing to her for refusing 'that small service', but I could not. I swear!”

“It is fortunate for you that I know you speak the truth”, Holmes said. “Bad as you have been, you drew back at the last, and that must count for something. Here.”

He handed the man a card.

“What is this, sir?” he asked.

“You will now do the following”, Holmes said. “You will spend the next hour packing all of your possessions into what you can carry, and you will then take the deeds of your house and go to that address, where you must ask for a 'Mr. Golightly'. He offers a service whereby he will advance cash for the deeds of your house – not of course their full value, but enough to set you up in the New World to which you will leave on the next ship. I know that two are sailing this evening, and bearing in mind your neighbour will not be best pleased at your departure, I strongly advise that you are on the first one. She may have caught up with you by the time the second one departs.”

“But sir....”

“Alternatively”, Holmes said, “you could remain here and face some very difficult questions from the police, a long time in gaol for your role in the murder of a London constable – something upon which our judges rightly frown – and the absolute certainty that your employers in Paddington will be terminating your employment the moment that they hear of your activities and choice of 'partner'. I am a fair man sir, and because you were honest with me and you did not pull that trigger, you shall have that choice. But do not test my patience much further, or....”

The man was already fled upstairs, grabbing a large handbag off the side as he went.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“How could you know that _he_ did not kill the constable?” I asked as we drove back to Cramer Street. 

“Because Miss Abbott made every effort to implicate him in the crime”, he said. “Indeed, had Sergeant Wright's men been more efficient she might have been well on her way to succeeding.”

“I still do not see what you saw in that”, I grumbled. “It looked to me just like an old cap.”

“It was perhaps a little unfair of me to word it the way I did”, he conceded. “Let me elaborate. That cap had something on it I expected to find, and also something that should have not been there.”

“Now I am even more at sea!” I complained. “You do that deliberately!”

He smiled but, I noted, did not deny it.

“What was on the cap was glue”, he said. “We know that as a picture-framer, Mr. Quimby works with the stuff, and I am sure that a closer examination would have established that it was the same sort of glue that Mr. Quimby uses. Miss Abbott doubtless broke into his house and stole it, knowing that the police might well spot the glue on it and link it to Mr. Quimby. The inspector told us that he claimed not to have been in the house, so that would have made him out to be a liar.”

“What was the thing that should not have been there, then?” I asked.

“Cat hair”, he said.

I stared at him in confusion.

“Cat hair is one of the most adhesive things in the modern home”, he said. “If, as Miss Abbott had been trying to imply, Mr. Quimby had for some reason shot the constable because of his jealousy say, then the cap would have been brought into the house, used and found later. But by the amount of cat hair on it, it had very clearly been in a feline environment for at least a week. ”

“The demon!” I growled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following evening, Holmes passed me the late edition of the _“Times”_ in which he had ringed a certain small article.

“'Second death at Bloodstream Terrace'”, I read. “The headline writers are getting worse! 'A Miss Delilah Abbott was found dead in her house, the same edifice in which a London policeman recently met an untimely demise. On this occasion however, there are no suspicious circumstances'.”

I put the paper down.

“Suicide?” I asked. He nodded.

“Assassination.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“Miss Day's nephew is a police constable”, he said, “and almost the same age as poor Constable Fredericks. She was, rather like our dear queen, Not Amused by Miss Abbott's actions, and paid her a visit. A final one.”

I was silent. I did not approve of such methods, but I could see that unless this woman was stopped there might well be more deaths.

“Inspector Smith was very pleased with my efforts”, he said. “Although the Service was less pleased with Sergeant Wright for missing the obvious matter of the glue, even though it prevented them from acting hastily. He will be under closer supervision in future.”

“He will not like that”, I said.

“Oh dear, how sad, never mind.”

Another of my friend's great talents; the ability to be utterly insincere!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
